Everybody Join In And Say BOOM!
by stellary
Summary: It was 1994. James and Tiago met for the first time.
1. Chapter 1

The year was 1994. _The Bridges of Madison County_ was still topping the New York Times bestseller list. Maria Carey and Celin Dion was heard all over the world. In June, Diana donned what would come to be known as the "Revenge dress" the same day Charles made his little confession on the telly; and there was the Wimbledon. Late July, a car bomb went off in front of the Israeli Embassy building in London, wounding twenty two; the explosion was heard over a mile away. In November, the Eurostar was launched, carrying passengers through the newly completed Channel Tunnel, reaching a heretofore unheard-of top speed of 186 MPH.

It was neither the best nor the worst of times, merely another year of what the mankind does best—destruction and innovation.

It was the year when James met Tiago for the first time.

Across the polished and well-worn wooden tabletop in The Three Stags on Kennington, the senior agent informed the newbie, "Espionage is dull and tedious. All those dead drops, pass codes, steganography, to say nothing of the _waiting_—" a dramatic roll of eyes and raise of shoulders—"So if you want things to be fun, you must make it so yourself."

He flicked off a wink, tapping an index finger twice on his head.

"You are going to be a double-0? You can begin with acting like one. Personally, I think," he glanced at his wrist watch, "alcohol consuming at three in the afternoon is an excellent start." He lifted his glass and downed the content, then put it down with a mischievous grin.

James had heard plenty of tales about agent Tiago Rodriguez (not even the venerable SIS with its stringent security measures was wholly impervious to gossips and rumors). It was generally acknowledged that he was confident and resourceful, with a penchant for budding technologies. Equally as well-known was his capricious temperament and possession of the sort of unsettling charm that got people shot or fired.

None of which posed any causes for concern to James, freshly recruited out of the Royal Navy, whose mind was on one thing only—to become an SIS field agent and, eventually, a double-0. Besides, he doubted that the agency would keep someone in its employment for long who made it a habit to hit on fellow agents.

It came as a surprise, therefore, when he received a veiled caveat from M as she sent him off to work with Rodriguez.

"He is as efficient as he is brilliant, as unpredictable as he is talented. His record of producing results is unparalleled. I have no doubt that for your aim you could do no better than working alongside him. However, Tiago—agent Rodriguez, isn't without shortcomings."

She fixed him with those pale cat eyes, assessing. Always assessing.

"My advice is to learn from his operational experience and calculations, but steer away from his...passion. It would be best for both of you."

They were in Lambeth, Central London. Come next April, the MI6 headquarters would move to its most iconic location—Babylon on Thames—in Vauxhall.

"James. James Bond," Rodriguez had toyed with the name on the tip of his tongue after their introduction, coloring the syllables with his accent. "Is it your real name?"

In the strong, cold winter afternoon light, his hair was a rich, dark chestnut brown, his eyes two pools of warm black coffee and his face an earnest mask of innocent curiosity.

He continued without waiting for an answer. "Do you know what Tiago means?" His eyes practically twinkled. "It's the Portuguese's version of 'James'."

A happy grin broke out on his face; his gaze traveled from James' short blonde tufts to his Aegean blue eyes. "We are dopplegangers! How about that, hm?"

James smiled back politely and just a bit uneasily. He had a well-honed intuition and it was whispering to him that there was something off about the man in front of him. Something fundamental, subcutaneous and _trouble_.

On the streets outside, it was wet and sunny. A cheerful busker was playing the accordion with controlled abandon.

It was just before Christmas.

Before going on their first assignment, Rodriguez "invited" James to visit two places of his choosing.

First stop was the library.

"Knowledge could save your life. It's saved mine many times over." Rodriguez lectured, lifting a World Atlas map of Asia off of a shelf with both hands. "No matter how detailed the mission briefing is, do yourself a big favor and read up as much as you could on anything related; the place, the people, the fucking weather.

"Believe me," he replaced the map and looked back at James, "you'll thank me later."

Next was the firing range.

James was something of a crack shot, so upon learning their destination he had been, despite himself, itching to finally show off some of his competency to the senior agent.

Weapon in hand, however, it wasn't the paper targets that awaited him.

Rodriguez stood in front of him, tall and solid, and told him, "Shoot me."

"I beg your pardon?"

In place of an answer, Rodriguez lifted a steady right hand and pointed the muzzle at James' forehead. Reflexively, James' own hand shot up and they were in a Mexican standoff.

At six in the morning, the large space was quiet and cold, like a blue whale.

A spark flashed in Rodriguez's eyes and he pulled the trigger. _Click._ A moment passed before he lowered his arm, a hint of a crooked smile on his face.

James followed suit, feeling a flare of irritation. "I do hope there was a point to that."

"Of course," Rodriguez drawled. "Out there on the field, there is no truth, only objectives; no trust only projectiles. The completion of the job is paramount. If anybody gets in your way—if _I'm_ in your way, shoot first, ask no questions later. Your country will thank you as long as you accomplish the mission."

James was silent for a few beats, then asked, "Is that your personal philosophy?"

"Oh, that is _the_ philosophy, my dear boy," Rodriguez placed the weapon back into the locker then sauntered towards the double door, leaving James behind in the belly of the blue whale.


	2. Chapter 2

They returned from Mission Number One successful and generally unscathed.

Having seen Rodriguez—009—in action firsthand, James had a new regard for him. Understood now why he was the best of the best.

Prior to launch, even on the plane ride to the destination, James had had doubts about Rodriguez's alleged prowess as a super spy. The man certainly took care of himself physically, that much was plain to see, but he'd seemed more panache than substance; someone who was riding on a reputation earned long ago that had became inflated over time.

But in an operational environment, Rodriguez revealed himself to be a model of ruthless efficiency and trenchant economy, aided by laser-point concentration. James managed it but keeping up with him had been demanding. At the rate, it wouldn't be too long before James attained mission ready status as a field agent.

James now fully appreciated M's decision of attaching him to the senior agent.

The appreciation lasted until his debriefing seven hours later.

He walked into M's stiflingly old-fashioned office. Not seeing 009 in the room James wondered whether it was standard protocol to debrief agents separately after a mission.

"Have a seat," M ordered, and continued when James obeyed, "How did it go?"

James detected a hint of affected casualness but didn't think much of it. He gave a concise rundown of all relevant events that had taken place during their 72-hour operation.

When he finished, M nodded and said, tersely, "Good. That's very good." Then she didn't speak again for some moments, looking down on the thin stack of paper in front of her and rolling a Dunhill fountain pen between the first three fingers of her right hand.

When she did eventually look up her face was impassive and her gaze firm.

She asked, "How much time did you spend with 009 on this assignment?"

James frowned. "The entire time, ma'am."

"At no point were you separated from him during the entire mission?"

"There were times when we were carrying out tasks individually but they were brief."

"What about when you were at the safe house? Were you staying in the same room?"

James' frown deepened. "I'm afraid I don't understand, ma'am."

M put down the Dunhill, laced her fingers together and leaned forward on the desk, her gaze penetrating.

"We have been monitoring 009 for the past three and a half months based on intel from one of our sources and we have reasons to suspect that he's been compromised. Nothing is concrete at this juncture and we need proof."

On James's face, disbelief replaced confusion, then turned into realisation.

"So that's why you placed me with him."

Internal spying was highly tricky business. Tricky and risky. Using a neophyte like James was advantageous in that people generally underestimated those with relative youth and inexperience thus never paid attention to what they were doing. He didn't have a history with Six yet so if things were to go very wrong it would be easy to throw him to the wolves without much damage to the ones running him.

This also explained the unorthodox arrangement of attaching a recruit as nascent as James to an established agent like 009.

This wasn't how James had imagined he'd break into the espionage world.

"How do you know he's been compromised?" He didn't think he'd get a straight answer but asked anyway.

"We have our source and it's reliable," M's voice brooked no argument. "What I need you to do is stick with him on missions and report back to me on his actions. I will notify you whenever such activity becomes no long necessary."

James might have looked a bit wide-eyed because she added, "This needn't be messy or unpleasant. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. If he's clean, of course. In the mean time," she looked into James' eyes, "if you wish not to be involved, I'd understand."

Right, and it would be the end of my career. Should have told me before I'd spent three days with the most brilliant man I'd ever met, bitch.

"No," James returned her gaze. "I'll do it."


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks later they set out for a new mission. They tracked their target through Cape Town in sweltering heat before eventually catching up with him in a Glencairn safe house where James strangled the man with a body lock.

It was the first time James had taken a life with his bare hands and he was horrifyingly elated by his smashing success. For a long time afterwards he would remember the panicked grunts, the straining, rippling sinews, the sweat-slick skin and the outgoing final breath.

Rodriguez had his weapon trained on both men, watched the whole affair go down and said nothing after.

They torched the small wooden lodge, watched it burn down to charred ruins and drove back to the city where they stayed another day waiting for further instructions.

When the message came—delivered by a cultural attache from the British consulate, it ordered for them to head straight to their next job.

They arrived in Mali in West Africa in one and a half days, never imagining what was waiting for them.

Eighteen hours later they walked away from another burning house. This time neither of them was in a mood to witness the collapse of the structure.

This time, there was no horrible elation, only horror—and devastation and _doubt_.

Watching innocent people—_children_—die an agonising death in flames and not being able to do anything makes you question _everything_. It's possibly worse than dying, if only for just one soul-ripping moment.

As Rodriguez drove them to the extraction point James broke the silence and asked the senior agent, "Have you seen anything like this before?"

Tiago's soot-smeared face contorted into something woeful and savage. "Wish I could say I haven't."

James turned his eyes and stared out of the dirty windshield.

Tiago said, jerking the steering wheel in an unnecessarily aggressive manner, "Aren't you going to ask if it'll get better?"

James didn't reply.

"It won't," the words came out serrated. "It shouldn't."

Later, as he was writing up his mission report James remembered the various versions of Rodriguez he had thus far witnessed—quiet and patient, cocky and coy, swift and pitiless, then he recalled M's orders.

Is it possible that he's working side by side with a traitor? He hadn't seen the other man do anything suspicious and was putting down as much in his report. Would M see something that he'd perhaps missed? How many pieces of evidence were required to confirm or refute suspected treason? If confirmed, would Rodriguez be tried or simply walk into a bullet between the eye one day?

He felt exhausted when he finished the report. Too many questions without any answers in sight. His heart was growing cold towards this game of intrigue before his career in espionage truly even began. He wanted to protest that he didn't sign up for any of this but thinking back to when M recruited him, he couldn't remember what precisely it was that he thought he _was signing up for._

_She was clever that way._

It was Wednesday.

Having received their latest bureaucratic pat on the back for another job well-done, James and Tiago decided to head over to The Three Stag for some refined dining which had been absent from their lives in the past three and a half week—a bit of an extended junket; South Asia was a jumble.

They did not make it a habit to rub shoulders outside of work but went for a post-mission meal from time to time. Today Tiago had a craving for Côte de Boeuf.

It was Tiago now.

Tiago, who'd pulled his Achilles heel on a Giza rooftop moving to shove James down onto the floor when an odd shooter popped up, resulting in a two-week limp; Tiago who'd dug a 9mm out of James' thigh with a shiv that was frozen solid in the Bucharest winter.

(And it was James who'd hauled Tiago away from a sedan seconds from detonating and performed speedy first aid for a coral snake bite. But James had always been James.)

"To ourselves," Tiago held up his glass of Pontet Canet 1990 and intoned.

Surprised, James lifted his own glass and completed the toast he had uttered many times before. "As no-one else is likely to concern themselves with our welfare."

They tinked their glasses against one another.

"I didn't know you were familiar with the traditions of the Navy," James said.

"Surely you recall that I am a devotee of research, Commander Bond," Tiago replied, placing a light emphasis on the rank, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

It seemed that he was rarely unsmiling around James whilst off the job, and more and more it was causing James pangs of guilt.

"Cheer up, my lad," Tiago prompted brightly, snapping his fingers in front of James' face, "glum doesn't become your sunny disposition."

He picked his fork and knife back up and carefully sawed a piece of slightly pink meat off of the thick, roasted steak they were sharing between them, then said, deliberately not looking at James and deliberately nonchalant. "If it's about the little spying game our dear M has been forcing you to play, you needn't worry yourself."

He lifted his head, finally meeting James' eyes and said with conclusiveness, still smiling faintly, "It's over."

James stared, frozen and feeling blood rush up to his head.

"I know it may not seem like it but she loves me, really. But she's a tough lover. The toughest you've ever seen. Indeed, I have convinced myself in the past that she didn't care about me a lick. The thing is, I'm not always a good boy and Mummy will do everything to keep me out of trouble.

"I'm sorry you got involved, James. It must have been all very puzzling for you. She just needed to keep an eye on me. For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you she chose to send my way."

James thought back on all those reports he'd had to write in the past four months, the things he'd mulled over and over whether to put in or leave out, whether by doing so he was ruining a good agent's career or aiding and abetting a treasonous traitor.

Was this a part of the game they grandly called international espionage or a dysfunctional relationship between two people who had played the game too much for too long?

He felt manipulated and small; tired before any anger even came on. But he had to ask about one thing.

"So what did you do?"

Tiago chuckled as if it was something funny and shook his head slightly for moment, "In our line of work, dear James, sometimes it isn't about what you did but what it does to you. Don't you think?"


	4. Chapter 4

James would have verified Tiago's claim with M but he reckoned it was true when an MI6 official letter arrived in his mail box two days later notifying him that he had been placed on hold for missions until further notice, with an 'M' signed in green ink at the end.

_This is it,_ he thought. _She's cutting me off now that she doesn't need me any more._

He considered charging into M's office and demanding an explanation but knew it would be a fruitless exercise that would only leave him seem unprofessional; a cardinal sin in the eye of M, the epitome of professionalism.

He felt anger like that of a jettisoned—what? Son? Brother? _Now you are really being ridiculous._

He began to spend more time on running and working out and stocked up the liquor cabinet; anything to take his mind off the limited options he'd been left with.

Perhaps that's why he didn't just chuck it in the bin when the card came in the mail at the mark of one week.

On the cream-colored paper, in Tiago's sprawling handwriting was the name of a hotel and a time.

It was for the next day.

James arrived at the Donovan bar in the Brown's hotel (located one street away from Bond Street; cute), in the heart of Mayfair.

The space was small and cozy with soft jazz playing in the background. At nine o'clock on a Tuesday evening, the guests were few. The furniture featured black leather and dark checks, offset by a medium-brown wooden floor. The fairly small bar was surrounded by six stools. James sat down on one of them and ordered a Manhattan—strong and bracing.

He had tried to decipher the intention behind the invitation: Perhaps the senior agent had been tasked with delivering the final blow (_You've done a fine job. We'll take it from here._) because M couldn't be arsed with it. If that's the case, James had decided that he'd take it like a professional and get it over with. No need to prolong the humiliation.

"I see you've started without me," Tiago's voice was low and rich, befitting the atmosphere. He brushed past James and lowered himself neatly into the stool to the left.

James took a sip of his drink before turning to look at him and immediately wanted to wipe that cockeyed smile off of the man's face. _Cheeky reprobate._

Tiago paid no mind to James' resentment. He waved cheerily at the bartender and said, "Same," pointing to the glass in front of James, then twisted his body to face James, popped up on his left elbow on the marble bar top.

"Do you like this place? I find it utterly charming but sadly don't get to come as often as I'd like."

James could feel Tiago's eyes on his face, salving warm. He gave a small shrug to the question.

Entirely undaunted by the non-answer, Tiago continued. "See that?" He stuck his chin out towards the piece of stained glass behind the bar. "It's an original from the St. George's hotel. Beautiful, isn't it?"

James was just about to tell him to shove this natter up his nose when the bartender brought over Tiago's Manhattan of which the man took a careful sip.

He hummed happily. "Ah, _eu poderia morrer."_

_James drained his own glass and put it down sharply. Time to put the efficacy of the drink to the test._

_He looked the other man square in the eye and asked. "What's this about, Rodriguez?"_

_Tiago's eyebrows raise a trifle. "Whatever do you mean?"_

_Irritation flaring up, James' facade of apathy cracked. "This setup is a bit elaborate just for giving the news that I've been sacked, isn't it? What, did you think I would make a fuss? I'd think you knew me better than that."_

_Tiago's face produced what seemed to be genuine surprise. "What makes you think that?"_

_"Let's see. Perhaps it was M's letter telling me there won't be any new missions for me for at least the next three months—I doubt she even wrote it herself. Or maybe it's the fact that no-one's bothered to tell me what the hell is going on."_

_The senior agent considered this; the smile now nowhere to be found in his eyes. Then he said, simply, "I see."_

_James was a bit confused by the turn the other man's mood had taken. He felt on edge. If this was a game, he didn't know how to play and didn't want to play. He began to get up._

_Tiago stopped him by touching his elbow. "Have one more drink with me. Please."_

_Maybe it was the gentleness of the gesture or the solemnity in his voice, (the naked supplication in those warm chocolate eyes), James sank back down on the stool. He felt tired and powerless._

_Tiago slid aside his own unfinished cocktail and ordered two Laphroaigs, neat._

_They sat in silence looking at the piebald glass window in front of them before the drinks arrived._

_They lifted the glasses, James taking a deep pull of the light amber liquid and Tiago a more measured sip. The spirit burned through the throat and slid into the stomach, warming the body._

_Tiago exhaled softly, then finally opened his mouth to speak._

_"Espionage is a nasty business to be in, my dear James. Once you are in it, you can forget about trust, forget about hope, forget about love. You play by the rules. The law of the jungle," he lifted his glass and tipped it upwards, "old and true as the sky."_

_James felt the senior field agent was being cryptic and theatrical but he's too loose-limbed and cloudy-headed to think up any retort. He could feel acceptance taking over his body._

_"I like you, James. I like you very much. I wish you a long and successful career. But I worry." Tiago fixed his eyes on James and in the low light they seemed darker and heavier than usual._

_"There is no question that you have the techniques, and the talent. That's not what I'm worried about. It is your heart." His right hand made an abortive move as if reaching for James but just came to rest upon the cold marble, the little finger nearly touching the back of James' hand, making the hairs there stand up._

_James felt flushed and tense and didn't like it, so he sniped back gruffly, "What's wrong with my heart?"_

_"Nothing, James, absolutely not a thing. The fact that you still have one, however, is what's troubling."_

_"Oh, codswallop." James muttered with feeling. He tossed back his drink and signaled the bartender for one more. Tiago made no attempt to stop him._

_When he spoke, the words were slightly slurred. "You think you know everything, think you are so clever, so above it all. Well, maybe you are all that, but you don't know me. You may have even read my file—M showed it to you when she set me on you, didn't she? She must have. You said it yourself, she loves you. So you've read the story, the dead parents, the troubles in school, the Navy, and you think you know me. Well, you don't. You have no fucking idea."_

_He began to raise the new glass to his lips, but this time Tiago intervened by wrapping a hand around James'. The ever-present gentleness made James feel so sick in his stomach that he jerked his hand away, spilling the drink._

_Face keeping neutral, Tiago pulled back his own hand and dabbed a napkin on it._

_"I think I know you, James, not because I've read any dossier on your past, but because I've spent the last four months with you under fire."_

_The insistent use of James' name and the heat and all the touching was really getting under James' skin. He needed to loosen his tie, needed to get out of this place. But his brain had other ideas and he asked, "You said you like me. What's that mean?"_

_Tiago looked amused. He gave a soundless laugh, shook his head slightly, and the corner of his mouth curled up anew._

_His lips were full and, insanely, James wanted to press a fingertip on his cupid bow._

_"Why, it means what you think it means, dear James. Did you think I risked my life for just anyone?"_

Five days later, when James received another letter from M's office asking him to come in for a meeting he couldn't find it in himself to care about what it all meant or what was going to happen any more. He wanted to get this mess over with and move on.

Which was why he was struck by shock when a prim M informed him that he had passed the initial testing "through an impressive display of resourcefulness and fortitude in training and operational environment" and that the next stage of more training, more testing was waiting for him "should he feel ready."

"Yes, I'm ready. But why the change of heart?" The eyes fixed on M were steel blue, expelling any need for pretense.

M's flint-grey eyes returned James' gaze. "Agent Rodriguez spoke rather highly of your skills and your allegiance to the service, and he could be quite persuasive when he wants to."

James was momentarily at a loss for words but somehow managed to blurt out, "Where is he?"

M answered after a moment. "Whilst it is a violation of protocol to reveal an active agent's location of post, I suppose in this case it's all right.

Agent Rodriguez flew out yesterday afternoon to Station H. Hong Kong."

The year was 1995.


End file.
